by M. D. Lee
From the parking lot there’s screeching and squawking erupting over the torn lobster parts. The two gulls have now turned into a dozen, each fighting over every scrap.
As I’m taking the last bite of my hotdog, Sara sits down beside me. “Hi, Fisher. How’s the hotdog I made for you?”
“Mmm…good,” I say between chewing. “Just the right amount of relish. You almost ready to go?”
Sara turns to watch the family leave, and says, “Just let me punch out then we can go.” She stands up and while removing her white apron, quickly walks over to the kitchen’s side screen door.
Soon we are both riding our bikes down Main Street, being careful not to run over any of the wondering tourists. We are headed over to Grandpa Woodridge’s old house. He’s really not my grandpa, that’s just what everyone in town used to call him. I never knew his first name was Elliot until last year when he passed away. Since then his family has taken many of the items he left behind. But in a few weeks the house is going to be put up for sale, so the family told everyone in town they could help themselves to whatever was left. Today, it’s sort of a free rummage sale. I doubt there’s anything good left, but Sara and I thought we’d have a look around just for the heck of it.
After riding only a few miles, there’s a long gravel driveway which leads to Grandpa Woodridge’s house.
The house, which is not too big but looks like it’s been added on to several times over the years, sits in a heavily wooded area. Even though it’s late in the afternoon and a bright sunny day, it’s shady and dark near the house. Around the house is a full wrap-around porch with a few green Adirondack chairs and a two-person swing. On the side of the house is a lot of firewood neatly stacked that must have taken Grandpa Woodridge all summer to collect and chop.
Getting off our bikes we lean them up against the porch. There’s one car and two pickup trucks also parked off to the side. Sara looks at me and says, “He’s been dead now for a full year. What do you think it’s like in there? I’m starting to feel weird about looking through a dead guy’s house.”
“Relax,” I say holding her hand. “It’s no big deal. It’s not like his ghost will be greeting us at the door.” The two of us walk up the wooden steps toward the front screen door. When I open it to let Sara go through first, the old rusted spring makes a straining noise. Inside, it takes us a moment for our eyes to adjust, and when they do we can tell the house has been picked over pretty good by the relatives.
“Do you think there’s anyone here?” Sara asks as she steps into the living room. Most of the chairs that are still left behind have heavy white cloth covering them which gives them the images of ghosts hovering in a room.
“Hello!” I shout out. We both listen for a moment. Nothing. “It’s kinda weird that the door would be wide open.”
“There’s no reason to lock it because they said anyone is free to take whatever they want,” Sara says. “Besides, there’s other vehicles parked out front. There must be someone else in here.”
I try again. “Hello. Seems to me we’ve got the place to ourselves. Let’s have a look around.” Inside the living room there’s only three stuffed chairs left that are so worn out no one would want to put in their home, but I bet they’re still pretty comfortable. “It’s too bad my fort washed away in a storm, these chairs would have been perfect in there.”
I had built a very cool fort down by the water’s edge, but the summer I was not here, while I was hiding on Hunter’s Island, Sara had said the fort was washed away one night in a bad storm. If I ever do that again I’ll just have to build it above the high-tide mark.
Just behind the front door is a wooden wall-mounted hat rack with a mirror in the center. On the rack are still two hats; one a red checked flannel job with ear-flaps, and the other is sort of a fedora, like they probably wore in the twenties, with a short feather sticking out the side. It’s funny to think people used to put feathers in their hats and think they looked cool.
I carefully grasp the fedora and blow some of the dust off. Inspecting it closely I then place it on my head and have a peek in the mirror. I’m not sure my haircut matches the style of the hat; longer hair just above my shoulders, that’s closer to blond than brown from the strong summer sun. I usually try and comb it back Eric Clapton style. Removing the hat, I keep studying myself staring back. I’m certainly taller than I was last year, and even slightly taller than most of my friends. My skinny-ish body doesn’t look too strong, but I know from hauling lobster traps last summer I’m stronger than most guys my age. I do a quick ‘double-barrel’ pose with both arms curled in the air then puff out my chest. My gray T-shirt is too loose to show off my bulging muscles if I had any, and my Levi’s are a little long with frayed bottoms to look like a proper strong-man pose.
“Fisher! Quit goofing around. Over here.” Sara’s standing by a two-way swinging door. “This must go to the kitchen.” She pushes through and when the door swings back I follow her in.
In the far corner by the cabinets in the dim light looks like another piece of furniture covered with a heavy white cloth. Suddenly it moves like it’s trying to grab us! “AAH!” rips out of my mouth. Both Sara and I jump back.
“Well, hello there,” says a woman in a white house dress who was bent over looking through a cabinet. “I didn’t hear you two come in.” She squints at us with a tilt to her head and an odd smile. I guess she doesn’t get it that we thought she was a ghost. She’s an older woman, probably older than my mom, who kinda looks like a large pear if a pear had arms and legs and short white hair. “I’m Martha, Elliot’s cousin from Connecticut.
Sara and I look at each other. It sounds funny to hear him called Elliot.
“I think everyone around here knows him as Grandpa Woodridge. We were cousins. He was much older than me.”
“Right. Grandpa Woodridge,” I say.
“There’s not much left; the two guys with the trucks picked over the last of the good stuff. But if you find anything nifty they missed, it’s yours,” she says.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sara says.
I open a kitchen cabinet and take a look inside. There’s only a dented pot with a broken handle; I’m certain I don’t need that.
After a quick look around the kitchen we move into the living room. The only thing left is a bad painting of a bird on the wall.
“There’s not much here,” I say. “Let’s get out of here and go hang out in town.”
Sara scrunches her face. “I don’t want to go back to town. We just came from there and it was too crowded with tourists.”
“You’re right,” I say.
Sara pushes open another door just off to the side. “Let’s just have a look in one more room.”
Why not. We’ve got nothing better to do, so I follow her into the next room.
It’s a little darker in here because the walls are stained wood paneling. Along two of the walls are bookcases filled with many old books that look like they haven’t been pulled off the shelves in twenty years. But I do like books; comic books, that is. “I doubt there’s anything good to read.”
“Only one way to find out,” Sara says.
I start looking on one end of the shelves while Sara begins looking through some of the others. Suddenly I sneeze. The dust is thick. I carefully brush some of the books, trying not to breathe in any more dust, so I can read the titles. After a few, I stop. There doesn’t seem to be anything interesting. It all seems old and boring. I notice Sara’s carefully pulled out a single book. It’s brown and seems to be larger than the rest, but what I actually notice is it seems to be very old. It’s so old it looks like it could crumble if she’s not careful.
“What’d you find?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. There’s nothing on the cover.” She sets it down slowly on the desk and turns on the overhead lamp. A yellowish light fills just a small area around the book. Carefully, she opens the book to the first page. The pages are mostly dark tan and look like a dry maple le
af. I move closer and take a look over Sara’s shoulders.
“It’s hand written,” Sara says, “and it’s pretty hard to read.”
There’s only two lines on the first page. “Can you tell what it says?” I ask.
Carefully without touching the page she reads, “Log of Captain Bartholomew Bonney.”
“Whoa! This is an old logbook from some sailing ship. That’s cool!” I say. I try to grab the book from Sara, but she pushes my hand away.
“I wonder how old it is,” She says.
“Well turn the page and find out.”
The next page is even harder to read because the whole page is filled with hand written notes that must be entries. I think there’re dates written on the sides, but I can’t tell for certain; the ink’s faded and smudged. There’s something in the back of my mind that feels like a tickle, but I can’t figure out what it is. Something about the name. “Bartholomew Bonney? What is it about that name?”
Sara says, “I was wondering the same thing.” We both think about that for a moment while Sara carefully turns the page. It’s another page filled with hand written entries that are almost impossible to read.
Quickly taking a few steps back Sara gasps and puts her hands to her mouth. “Bartholomew Bonney, wasn’t he also known as Blarney Bart?”
My eyes go wide and I move in closer to read the name in the book. “It can’t be—can it? Blarney Bart—the pirate!”
Chapter 2
Logbook
We’re both standing over the logbook, almost afraid to touch it, reading and rereading the name Bartholomew Bonney, also known as Blarney Bart the Irish pirate of the Massachusetts Bay Territory, which is now Maine. Finally, in a soft voice I say, “This is so cool. And nobody knows it’s here.”
“We should tell Grandpa Woodridge’s cousin, Martha. She’ll want to know.”
I reach around her and close the book. “No. We found it, it’s ours.”
Sara shakes her head looking at the closed logbook on the desk. “I don’t know, Fisher. Somehow that seems dishonest.”
I roll my eyes; girls. “It’s not dishonest. She said we are welcome to anything we find.” I carefully pick it up in my hands and feel its weight. It’s crazy to think this is probably more than two hundred years old.
Thinking about it, finally I say, “I’ll make a deal with you. Why don’t we take this home so we can look through it? Then when we’re done we’ll give it back. But really, it’s ours fair and square.”
“I guess that’s okay.” Sara gives in but doesn’t actually sound too convinced.
I look around at the rest of the books until I find what I’m looking for. It’s a book slightly bigger than the logbook, and I place it on top.
Sara shakes her head. “Why?”
“It’s to cover up the logbook so no one asks any questions.”
We’re about to leave through the front door when Grandpa Woodridge’s cousin pokes her head out from the kitchen door. “What’d you two kids find? Anything good?”
“Just a couple of old books,” I say and quickly hold them up for her to see.
“Books, huh? I don’t do too much reading myself. Have fun.” She gives us a bored wave and disappears back into the kitchen. She’s probably just happy that’s two less books she’ll have to remove from the house.
*
After a short ride on our bikes, we stop at Well’s Park which is close to the water’s edge. We sit at the last picnic table not being used, so we can have a closer look at the logbook. With the book lying flat on the table, I open it up to about the second or third page. There’re a lot of entries, and the penmanship in old ink makes it almost impossible to read. In fact, most of it looks like chicken scratching to me. Sitting next to me, Sara looks on as I carefully turn the brittle pages. It doesn’t look much more than endless scribbles that I can’t read. After a while, giving up, I close it.
Sara pulls the book closer to her, and says, “You mind if I take it home and have a look at it? Maybe I’ll be able to find something interesting.”
“Sure. You figured out last summer the monkeys were trying to talk to us with sign language; maybe you’ll find out something cool about the pirates.”
The weirdest thing happened to us a while ago. My tent-mate Hingy and I were camping in the woods when some monkeys found us. They were doing all kinds of crazy things with their hands, and it was Sara who figured out they were trying to talk to us by using sign language. So she might be able to figure out the logbook entries too.
We sit for a moment with the book between us just watching the ocean. Finally she says, “So when are you taking Mr. Plankinton on that sailing trip?”
“In two weeks from,” I reply. I’ve got the world’s greatest summer job. I take care of a little sailboat, called the Sticky Wicket which is about twenty-one feet long, for a man named Mr. Plankinton. He’s usually only around on the weekends, so I keep it clean and ready to sail. If there are any repairs that need to be made I take care of that too. You see, Mr. P. didn’t know how to sail when he bought it. He just purchased it because he liked the way it looked, and besides, he’s got a lot of money so it was no big deal for him. I’ve also been teaching him to sail. It’s a great job for a fourteen-year-old.
In two weeks he wants to try a week long sailing trip, so I thought we’d try sailing to Hunter’s Island. It’s really the only place I know how to get to by sailboat because it’s where I hid out for the summer…with Mr. P.‘s sailboat.
I think for a moment. “You know, I really could use another crew member. Mr. P.‘s still pretty new at sailing and isn’t gonna be much help. Wanna come along? You could be the head cook and cleaner too.”
Before I realize what’s happening, Sara has a firm grip on my earlobe. With a giggle she says, “Do you really think I want to be the head cook and cleaner, Fisher Shoemaker?”
“You’d do anything just to be with me,” I say with a smirk.
“Guess again!” Sara says letting go of my ear but suddenly attacks me with tickles to my side.
I laugh so hard I fall off the picnic bench. “Stop it! You can do anything you want on the boat. Just stop tickling me.”
“Anything?” she asks.
“I’m serious. You’re a good sailor. I really could use your help. I taught you how to sail after all.” The assault of tickles hit me again only with more fury. “Would you stop that!”
“I already knew how to sail before I met you. You just helped me pass my solo-sailing test. That’s all.” She looks at me then smiles slightly. “You really want me to come along?”
“Yes, or I wouldn’t have said it. Please don’t tickle me anymore.”
“And your parents said you can go with Mr. Plankinton on a sailing trip?”
“Yeah, they’re cool with it.
Sara thinks for a moment, then says, “Well, I’ll ask my dad. He’s kind of friends with Mr. Plankinton, so if he knows he’ll be along maybe my dad won’t mind. I’ll also have to see if I can take a week off from the Sea Side Restaurant. They might not be too happy about that. If I promise to do double shifts maybe I can get off.”
“You never know unless you ask,” I say.
“I should be on my way home.” Sara leans down toward me on the ground and gives me a kiss. The little hairs on the back of my neck suddenly tingle. “I’ll call you later.” Sara picks up her bike with the book in her hand and rides off toward her house. Standing up, I brush the grass and dirt off as I watch her ride away.
*
Monday night; my favorite night of the week. My annoying younger sister is at band practice, and I can watch the Six Million Dollar Man on TV without anyone bothering me. How cool would that be, to have bionic legs and be able to run sixty miles an hour and lift a truck off someone. I turn on the good old color Zenith TV and flop down on the couch.
“Fisher!” My dad calls out from the other room. I groan; my show is just about to start. “You have a phone call.”
“Wh
o is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not your secretary! Get your butt over here and see who it is for yourself.”
I roll myself off the couch just as the music starts for the Six Million Dollar Man. “…We can rebuild him, faster, stronger…”
I grab the phone from my dad. He’s frowning at me. “Hello?”
“Fisher, it’s Sara.”
“Oh. Hi. Did your dad say you can go on the trip?” I ask.
“I didn’t ask him yet. What are you doing tonight? Can you come over? I found something in the logbook you should see.”
I can hear my show starting in the other room. “Hmm…maybe later. I’m sort of in the middle of something.” I try stretching the phone cord so I can see the TV, but it comes up just a little short pulling me back.
“You have to come over now.” Her voice is stern. “There’s an entry in the logbook about a lot of gold coins they stole from the French.” There’s a pause on the other end. “According to the logbook it’s buried on Damariscove Island.”
I’m not sure I heard that right because I’m trying to catch what’s on TV. “You mean like a buried treasure?”
Softly on the other end of the phone, she replies, “Yes. Like buried treasure.”
The stretched phone cord snaps the receiver out of my hands sending it bouncing across the floor. There’s a tiny voice coming from it, “Fisher? Fisher? Are you there?”
Chapter 3
Library Witch
While I’m riding my ten-speed Schwinn to Sara’s house, I can’t stop thinking about what she said over the phone. Buried treasure. That can’t possibly be. Everyone’s heard stories about pirates burying treasure, but not here in Maine. I would’ve paid more attention in history class if we were studying pirates especially around here. Buried treasure’s like one of those crazy stories that gets better over the years but never really happened. Sort of like the Big Foot stories that seem to be going around a lot these days. They’re fun to hear and tell, but I don’t really believe any of them. Besides, pirates just never hung out in Maine, probably too cold.
